In The Service Of The Queen (The Gunsmith Book 1)

by C. K. Crigger

  “Mr. Deane,” I said, drawing him away from his visit with my father, “perhaps you’d care to show me your gun.”

  I felt a flare of excitement as I gazed into his green eyes that had nothing to do with the gun. He’d just shaved and he smelled of an expensive cologne. My nostrils fluttered in appreciation.

  Caleb eyed me searchingly. I assumed he was looking for any trace of a wound he might have overlooked yesterday. He gestured toward the wrapped bundle lying right where he’d left it last night. “Has that been out all night?”

  “We have very good security here,” I said. We did, although ordinarily I do lock everything up at quitting time. No matter how guilty the omission made me feel, how was I to tell him I couldn’t have borne to touch it? Not right then. And I wasn’t too sure about touching it now.

  He grunted, then peeled the blanket from around the old gun. While a wonderful example of the gunsmith’s craft, it had a dry, slightly scratched and pitted stock, a plain, utilitarian lock plate, and a barrel with only a slight flare at the end. Nothing so exaggerated as to cause the balls to fly in all directions at once, until the shooter was in more danger than the shootee.

  In my opinion, you could have taken this gun out right this minute for a turkey shoot with never a worry about blowing your face off. At the same time I thought it had seen real service, instead of being stuck in some rich squire’s gun room. Just the sort of weapon to have a lot of history—the history I sensed seething in the metal and wood, stronger than ever since Caleb had opened the covering.

  I think I must have moaned out loud. Too soon, it’s too soon. But the ghostly magic didn’t care that Beth’s story still tore at my nerves.

  “Pardon me?” Caleb asked, distracted by the sound I made.

  “Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Tell me, Mr. Deane, where and when did you acquire the gun? Unless…let me guess. A family heirloom?”

  “Caleb,” he said. “Call me Caleb. And yes, it is an heirloom. A gift to me from my grandfather. It’s generations old.”

  “Hmm, several generations, I should think.” What else? I wondered if proximity to Caleb intensified the power emanating from the gun.

  “Because I’d say this dates from the 1790s to around 1810. Is the date stamped somewhere?” Since firearms, good firearms, were usually custom made in that time, they frequently had the exact date of manufacture on them rather than a general model number, as well as the smith’s name or mark.

  “Sure. On the other side.” He flipped the gun over. Richards, it said, on the lock plate. One of the very best. 1802. And inscribed around the muzzle, “For His Majesty’s Coaches” with another number, which I knew designated the route the mail coach had run.

  Goose bumps walked along my spine and I shuddered. Caleb, darn him, saw way too much.

  “Something wrong?” he asked. “Or are you still cold?”

  To the contrary, the room was warming up quite nicely. Enough so that Dad had settled into his rocking chair minus the blanket over his legs, and Gabe lay sprawled rather than curled on his rug. The smell of wood smoke escaped from the stove when Dad threw another chunk of tamarack on the fire. It scented the shop, mingling with the odor of chemicals.

  “Must be a draft,” I muttered.

  “Hmm,” Caleb said, his tone non-committal. He turned his focus back to the blunderbuss. “See here. What about this? Is this repairable?” He drew my attention to a narrow, three-inch long crack in the stock.

  I’d noticed the crack and, as a rule, I’d have begun poking and measuring to see just how far the damage extended before I gave him an estimate. Today, with Caleb standing right beside me, I only bent a little nearer, not daring to touch the piece. Just being this close let me know I couldn’t work on it and be able to resist the story it wanted me to know. The damn thing fairly sizzled with power.

  “There isn’t much that can’t be fixed,” I assured him, keeping my fingers crossed at the words. Without a real examination, I didn’t know if I was telling him the truth. I swept on anyway, confidence lending credibility. After all, I was the expert. “A wooden gunstock can be repaired just as you would fix any fine piece of furniture. A little wood filler sanded down and properly colored and Bob’s your uncle. I’d never recommend doing that, by the way. You’d lose at least half the value.”

  “No kiddin’,” he said. “Well, but see this.” He took me lightly by the arm and pointed to where the barrel fitted into the stock. The tip of his finger grazed the metal.

  Power zinged through my bones on a super-charged wave front, so fast I didn’t even catch an impression of the history; only a time distant and dark with peril. And hard enough for me to gasp and stumble back against a clamp holding an 1880’s Springfield rifle that carried no trace of magic. I must have turned pale because Caleb’s arm went around me and he said, “Here, put your head down. Lean on me…there’s a girl.”

  Dad, seeing my distress, started from his rocker, and even Gabe raised his head to look. I gave a faint shake of my head and Dad subsided, keeping a watchful eye on us.

  “No, no,” I said, recovering within seconds. I wanted to scream at him, “Don’t touch the gun.” I refrained. He probably already thought I was some kind of idiot. A deep breath helped me regain my equilibrium. “I’m fine. Just got a little dizzy for a minute.”

  I noticed Caleb’s fingers moved spasmodically and he rubbed them together as if to restore proper feeling.

  “Are you hooked up to an electric charger or something?” he asked, frowning. “That was quite a jolt for static electricity.”

  A glance down would have showed him we stood on a rubber mat, put there to cushion my feet and legs when I stood for extended periods. I decided against calling the rug to his attention. If he wanted to call what he’d felt static electricity, I’m sure I didn’t care. It saved me from trying to explain the unexplainable.

  “Oh,” I said, hoping I sounded ingenuous. “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

  I can just imagine what Scott would have made of this conversation.

  He’d decided to get a little work done, thank God, and he’d gone over to his own side of the shop and begun taking covers off the glass cases where he kept the handguns. Dad, seeing I had the power under control, got up and went over to help him.

  Caleb made a visible effort to shrug off the queer feeling, and I met his gaze with what I trust looked like candor. It wasn’t as if I committed any crime with the magic I worked. Or maybe I should say, worked through me. Still, I didn’t think I’d start advertising the phenomenon either. Fit, seizure, neither of those words was accurate.

  Neither was crazy.

  His level green eyes met mine. “Now why do I get the impression you don’t want to talk to me, Boothenay? You don’t mind if I call you Boothenay, do you?”

  “That is my name,” I said. “But…”

  “I’d have to be blind and stupid not to know something odd is going on.” He interrupted before I could form a coherent sentence. “It’s not every day you walk in on a scene where, one: you find a woman sprinkled all over with blood.” He ticked the points, number by number, off on his fingers. “Two: she lacks any visible signs of a wound herself, and three: she is about half off her head with hysteria.

  Kind of interesting, too, that her daddy and brother are maybe more frantic than she is herself, particularly when a closer acquaintance shows them to be level-headed, normal individuals. What about that?”

  “Strange.” I suppressed a shudder, thinking I better let the question lay. “But—”

  “Very strange,” he concurred, without letting me finish. “Ordinarily I might think somebody had been murdered, except there doesn’t seem to be a body. There’s not even a person with a wound. Truth be told, the situation doesn’t feel like murder. I’ve been present at few murder scenes, back when I was a fire department paramedic, and there is always a certain emotional atmosphere hanging over everyone. No, I can’t bring myself to think this is murder.”
>
  “I told you I hadn’t shot anyone,” I said, beginning to get angry.

  None of this was any of his business anyway. Not when there was no crime.

  “True,” he agreed. “And I believed you. I do believe you. But there’s still something peculiar going on. Why else would your brother try to tell me that was oil splattered on you? Oil!” he said in a scathing tone. “As if I don’t know blood when I see it, let alone smell it.”

  Oh, yes. That hot coppery smell that burned your nose. I had become better acquainted with blood lately than I really liked. Still…he had his nerve pushing into my private life. “I can’t see that this is any concern of yours. None of this is anything to do with you.”

  He grunted with a noise that sounded like disgust, as if he thought he’d just caught me in a malfeasance. “I knew there was something.

  And while we’re on the subject, may I say you have a strange feel about you.”

  “Thank you very much,” I snapped.

  “Sorry.” Caleb made a face, recognizing by my expression that he hadn’t been tactful. “I guess that came out wrong. I meant you have a strange—um—aura, if that is a more acceptable term. Like a color maybe…blue, or yellow, or green.”

  “Or red,” I added, remembering I’d heard red meant anger. Here I’d been thinking he was just my type and now he was turning into a royal pain in the patoot. Too pushy, by far. “I think you should gather up your gun, Mr. Deane, and see if you can find another gunsmith to help you.”

  He stared at me, then reached over and caressed the butt of the blunderbuss. “I don’t want to take it anywhere else, Boothenay. I checked you out, you know. Word of mouth, Better Business Bureau, other gunsmiths in town. According to your reputation, you’re the best.

  I don’t want to risk my family heirloom with anyone less than the best.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. So, he hadn’t just dropped by. He’d been pointed in my direction. “Your thundergun truly is an interesting piece, but I just don’t think I could suit you.”

  I thought I heard him mutter something about suiting too well, and my heart took a jump. And then took a bigger one, because the fool took hold of my arm once again, at the same time as he picked up the gun.

  Soft green satin shimmered against my skin, silky and fine. I walked a marble floor beneath a high, beautifully painted ceiling. I was in a palace, on my way to visit the Queen.

  Quick as a heartbeat, I slammed back into the now to find Caleb staring at me, his eyes nearly as green as the gown I’d been wearing.

  “What was that?” His hand shook where he held my arm. He’d dropped the gun.

  “I’m a magician, Caleb,” I admitted, all the while knowing he wouldn’t believe me. A pity, really, because there had been a man at my side during that short break with actuality. I’d glimpsed him out of the corner of my eye. That man had been Caleb, just the same as he was right now. “What you felt was a little taste of my power.”

  Chapter 5

  Caleb’s green eyes narrowed. “I suppose you think I just came in on the turnip truck, right?”

  I shook my head, while under my breath I damned myself for some kind of fool. Somebody needed to put a muzzle on me. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything about the magic, but a slip of the tongue let the words fall out of my mouth before I could stop them. Put it down to my own surprise at seeing him in that other world. On the other hand, perhaps I was meant to say those words, although that idea didn’t occur to me until later.

  “Maybe the truck did dump me off here,” he said, wrinkling his forehead. “Because I’m halfway to believing you. I know I felt something weird. Had a strange vision, too. Do you want to know what I saw?”

  “Probably not,” I said, afraid I already knew what he’d seen. I didn’t want him involved, although the words, “too late,” kept running through my mind. He didn’t pay any attention to what I said anyway.

  “I saw you.” He looked unfocused, as if he saw an inner vision. “At least I think it was you, but you had on a long, green dress, and you acted differently. Your eyes were the same, though. Big and black with spider leg eyelashes. Mostly I only saw your eyes.”

  “Cow eyes.” I didn’t dwell on his description of me for more than a second anyway, because of the confirmation he had somehow connected with my own vision. How could that have happened? My power must be growing, I thought , if I can channel through another person. Exhilarating, but frightening too. I didn’t know if I wanted the responsibility.

  “How do you explain what I saw?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

  “I’m not even going to try. You’re the one telling the story.”

  Perhaps if I acted like I didn’t know what he was talking about, he’d begin to doubt his own perceptions.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I saw and felt something. And you did, too. I know you did. Are you going to deny it?”

  “You’re mistaken,” I said, still trying.

  “And you’re scared,” he shot back, watching me. “Frightened of my gun. Aren’t you?”

  “Certainly not. Why would I be frightened?”

  “That’s what I asked you.”

  “You’re imagining things,” I snapped, unaccountably angry that he could read me with such ease.

  “Yeah?” Caleb jeered. “That’s why you wouldn’t touch the gun, isn’t it? Whatever makes you see visions comes from my gun.”

  “I don’t see visions.” Oh, no. Rather more than visions.

  “No? Well, I did—I think. Anyway, if you’re not frightened, then you shouldn’t have a problem working on the blunderbuss.”

  “I—I’m too busy.” Of course. Why hadn’t I just said that to begin with?

  He looked around the shop. The Sharps and the trapdoor Springfield

  .45-70 were the only pieces I had in work right now, and there were just two items in the vault, waiting their turn for my attention. My business slacks off in the Christmas season, just when Scott’s picks up.

  Everyone wants new guns, not repairs to old ones. Caleb had no trouble figuring that out, maybe because of the uncluttered, too neat state of the shop.

  “You don’t look all that busy,” he said.

  I should have told him I was taking a vacation. To Tahiti.

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “Don’t I know it?”

  We glared at each other until inspiration apparently struck Caleb and he walked over to the other side of the shop where Dad, busy giving Scott advice my brother would never heed, still puttered with a counter display of Leupold sights. I trailed along in his wake.

  “Mr. Irons, do you think you can persuade your daughter to work for me?” he asked in a valiant effort to enlist my family’s aid. “I’d hate to have to send the gun out of town. I never quite trust these shipping companies.”

  “Sorry, Doc. I’m not making Boothenay’s decisions for her. If she says she doesn’t feel she can work on your piece, then that is up to her.” Dad cocked a brow at me.

  He’d gotten real diplomatic in his old age, I noticed. Scott smiled in appreciation, and I thanked my lucky stars he hadn’t voiced his opinion. Yet.

  “Please.” Caleb turned back to me. “This is important. I can’t tell you how important, but I’m depending on you, Boothenay. Only you.

  It’s a powerful feeling I have, or I wouldn’t pester you like this.”

  My head shook no, though I felt on the verge of giving in. I didn’t understand why Caleb insisted I had to be the one who worked on his blunderbuss. Me, and no other. His insistence seemed deeper than a vision lasting mere seconds could explain. I wondered suspiciously if the same voodoo had hit him as had hit me. Before I realized what I was doing, my head started bobbing the other way.

  Caleb flashed a grin. “Well, now,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “Thank you, ma’am. When you get the long gun all done up right and tight, I hope you’ll let me bring the pistols that go in the set for you to clean.” He sighed. “W
hat a relief to get this settled. You know, you’re a darn tough cookie when you take it in your head there’s something you don’t want to do.”

  “The set?” I echoed, excitement flaring against my better judgment.

  Only the part about the pistols really registered in my brain. “You’ve got a full set…matched up?”

  “I do. I inherited them from my grandfather when he passed on this last summer.”

  “That’s fabulous, Caleb.” A rare find for sure. I thought he must not know how rare, he acted so blasé. “I wonder…are you familiar with their history?” A little forewarning of what to expect might be nice. An anxious thought struck me. “Are they as well preserved as the blunderbuss?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about them. Only that they came over in the boat with the original immigrant to this country—Jonathan Harriman was his name—complete with a doozy of a story. The pistols are in better shape than this,” he assured me, leaning over and running his hand over the stock like he was petting a cat. “They look almost new. The long gun’s seen a lot of use, though, don’t you think?”

  “Quite a lot,” I agreed, “but not abused. It’s had good care, or it wouldn’t have lasted two hundred years.”

  I kept my distance from Caleb and the gun, although he made no move to touch me again. The gun remained quiet, as if waiting for a better time to show off. Maybe the power I’d felt had been expended when I agreed to do as Caleb asked. As much as I hoped the magic had run its course, I knew better.

  Then I realized hoping the power had dissipated was a load of bull.

  I didn’t wish for any such thing. I wanted to know the story the blunderbuss had to tell, and besides, what red-blooded American girl doesn’t want to meet royalty, even if it is only Queen Charlotte and the year is 1811.

  Caleb left soon, saying he had to get to work, and for the rest of the day, his blunderbuss sat where he’d left it. I couldn’t work up the nerve to handle the gun—not yet. Not when I had yesterday’s brush with Beth and McSylvie fresh in my mind and knowing the potential was here for a similar adventure. When closing time came, Dad put the gun in the vault, accompanying the chore with a word of belated advice.